


Wheel of Westeros Book One: Rise of Jon Part Four

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [19]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crossroads Inn (ASoIaF), F/M, The Brotherhood Without Banners (ASoIaF), The Wolfswood (ASoIaF), Warg Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: The King in the North takes his guest the prince on a hunt that demonstrates his power. Shireen of House Baratheon prepares for her final journey. Gendry frees a captive and flees the Brotherhood under Lady Stoneheart, and recalls his reunion with a dear friend.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Val, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys
Series: Wheel of Westeros [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Wheel of Westeros Book One: Rise of Jon Part Four

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book One: Rise of Jon Part Four**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Jon

Jon and Satin met the prince and his man Rolly Duckfield at the west gate of Winterfell as dawn was breaking. The morning was mostly clear, with only a few scattered clouds painted pink by the sun rising in the east. It hadn’t snowed, but there was a thick frost covering the ground and the castle that shimmered in the sunlight. Young Griff and Ser Duck carried both bow and crossbow, as did Jon and his man. Over his shoulder, Satin bore a rolled-up litter similar to what Bran sometimes got around on, which Griff and Duck eyed curiously.

“Have you ever hunted elk, your grace?” Jon asked.

“With my guardian, yes…in the Forest of Qohor,” Griff said. “Although I was very young, and Jon Connington did most of the work.”

“Well now you’ll have a chance to do the work yourself…on an elk of the Wolfswood.”

Jon and Ghost had smelled the elk and heard his bugling the previous night, not long after Ghost brought down a doe seven miles into the Wolfswood. An animal that size would give their people a feast, but it would be moving fast. Jon hoped Griff was as skilled with a hunting bow as he claimed.

“You haven’t brought your wolf to hunt with us?” Duck said, sounding disappointed. He was a bold man, with hair even redder than Tormund’s sons. Jon had sensed immediately that he was trustworthy and loyal. It was no wonder the prince kept him close.

“Ghost does his hunting at night, Ser,” Jon said. “But don’t worry, I have his nose and ears with me at all times.”

They loaded up their horses and rode into the forest. The frost coated the needles on the trees and the fallen leaves on the forest floor, making everything a pale shade of silver. Slashes of blushing orange sunlight poured in between the trees, and the winter birds’ calling echoed through the crisp air.

“This North of yours is truly beautiful, Jon Snow,” Griff said. “If only it weren’t so bloody cold.”

“You should have spent time at the Wall if you think this is cold, your grace,” Jon said. He appreciated that the prince was willing to overlook his “open rebellion” for the time they had together. Jon’s initial mistrust of the man was waning, for he seemed to have a good heart and to genuinely want to do the right thing, even if he didn’t know what that was yet. He looked like Jon imagined a young Rhaegar had looked, except for his golden skin, which Jon guessed must have come from his Dornish mother.

“How long were you at the Wall, Jon,” Griff asked. “Why did you leave it? Your family and your Freefolk generals are pretty tight-lipped on the matter.”

“That’s due to my own instruction,” Jon said. “But I’m happy to tell you the truth if you want to hear it.”

Jon told only what the prince might need to know. He did not mention his lover Ygritte, or Sam Tarly and Gilly. “Not all my brothers agreed with the decision to let the Freefolk south of the Wall in the end,” he said. “I did err in attempting to forswear my vows. I resolved to take back Winterfell. Before I could do so, I was…reprimanded.”

“You mean to say you never actually deserted?” Griff asked.

“My intention wasn’t to desert the Watch, only to stray from my vows this one instance.”

“To take back your home and protect your people from a tyrant,” Duck said. “What is the Watch for, if not to protect people? I hope they didn’t punish you too harshly.”

Jon smiled. “They tried to execute me. They failed.”

“Failed?” Griff said. “How did they manage that?”

“Let’s just say the Old Gods intervened. I thought better of my plans afterward and went on a ranging to Hardhome instead. When I returned with the Freefolk who escaped with me, I was banished. That’s how I came to be home.”

Jon didn’t tell them about finding Rickon and Ser Davos Seaworth among the Skagossons. He was wary of telling too many people of Rickon’s survival. Sansa wanted to offer Rickon to Griff as a hostage, but Jon didn’t wish to risk his life. With Bran unable to have sons, that made Rickon the most viable trueborn male heir of Winterfell. Even now, he was being moved from Bear Island to Greywater Watch on Jon’s orders. He would prefer it if Rickon’s location remained in motion until he was old enough to fight for himself. Arya said they should offer Bran instead, but Sansa seemed to think that Bran’s visions made that a dangerous proposition. Jon agreed he should be kept close, though he did not know whether Bran’s visions would help or hurt them, or even if they came from Bran at all.

“It sounds to me as if you were treated unjustly,” Griff said. “But Myrcella has a different take on the matter. The people of the southern kingdoms don’t know the Freefolk as you do.”

Jon nodded. He had observed that Griff was hesitant at first to mingle with the Freefolk, but over the past couple of weeks, he had seen him talking at length with Tormund and Gerrick as well as other captains. At least he was willing to listen to them.

“I know the risk you would take by granting me a pardon, your grace, so I won’t ask for one,” Jon said. “I hope you know I appreciate your treating fairly with us. It does mean a lot.”

“Not enough to bend the knee, however,” Griff said, without hostility. “Your brother did tell me you’ve made overtures toward enforcing a stop to the vile practice of First Night in the North…that’s something _I_ appreciate.”

“Northerners and the Freefolk are alike in that ancient traditions die hard,” said Jon. “The Freefolk are adapting to a whole new way of life. If I am to settle them into strongholds, to force them to live without raiding as they have always done, and if I am to stop the lords of Northern clans from taking every subject’s bride on her wedding night…”

“Then you need to do it as a king,” Griff said.

“I’m glad you understand, your grace,” said Jon. He didn’t tell the prince that enforcing an end to First Night involved using Bran’s unnatural knowledge of who was doing it and when. “I also needed to solidify a pact with the Freefolk by marriage.”

Griff nodded, smiling. “Val,” he said. “Forgive me, Jon, I had a hunch.”

“It’s only kept quiet while a peace with the Northern Lords is still forming,” Jon said. “But soon enough the secret will out.”

“It’s a smart match, and a man could do worse,” Griff said, winking.

Griff was certainly clever, but Jon wondered whether he could guess that Val was with child. She wasn’t showing much yet. Other than a bout of fainting now and again, and some increased fleshiness, there were no other notable signs. It was Jon who initiated their lovemaking now, rather than the other way around. He was always exhausted at the end of a day, but her breasts and belly were fuller and softer, and often his want of her overrode his want of rest.

The prince had brought a skin of very nice red wine from the East, and he passed it around. Jon took a long drink, and then he heard it: the bugling of the elk in the distance. He reined up his horse. “I hear him. He’s northwest of us. Maybe five more miles,” he said.

Griff and Duck looked puzzled. Of course they heard nothing. “How in Seven Hells can you hear him from this far?” Duck asked.

“He’s calling to his harem…not to mate. To get south,” Jon said. He rode on, and to distract himself from a sudden growing sorrow, asked Griff and Duck about their parentage. Griff’s story left Jon questioning why the little girl, Rhaenys, wasn’t switched out as well. It seemed wrong to leave the daughter to die while the son was whisked away to safety, but he did not say this.

“Connington was the only father I ever knew,” Griff said. “Count yourself lucky to have known yours, Jon.”

“I do,” Jon said.

“And what about yourself?” Griff asked. “Do you know anything of your mother?”

“Very little,” Jon said, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. “I think she was a common woman, but none of us knows for sure.”

Arya had told him not long after she arrived that she had met a lordling named Edric Dayne on her travels, and he claimed to be Jon’s “milk brother.” Jon’s mother, in other words, was Wylla, his wet nurse. Arya, however, had thought long on the subject, and she believed that very well could have been a ruse. She considered the possibility that Jon’s mother was Ashara Dayne, sister to Ser Arthur Dayne. _That would make your uncle the Sword of the Morning,_ Arya had said. _No wonder you wield a sword as well as you do._ Lady Ashara, unfortunately, had committed suicide after Robert’s Rebellion, and this Edric thought it was for love of their father. Were it true, it changed much of what they thought they knew about Eddard Stark, but it explained why his mother had never contacted him, and why his father had refused to speak of her. Ghost had howled mournfully the night Arya told him, and it still made Jon sad to think on it. He and Arya determined that they should keep it secret, even from Sansa, because it wouldn’t do for a King in the North to be born a Dornishman. One day, Jon would ask Bran if he could see the truth of it, but he wasn’t ready – not now, not yet.

“If you don’t mind me asking, your grace, why didn’t Lord Connington accompany you to Winterfell?” Jon asked to change subject.

Griff looked not just very sad, but troubled. “He’s at Oldtown. He…fell ill. Very ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, your grace,” Jon said.

Suddenly, their horses began to whicker nervously. Jon sniffed the air and smelled it at once: a shadowcat – a huge one, and not far away. No doubt he was stalking the same elk as they were. Jon ordered them to stop and tie the horses. They took twenty paces south and readied their weapons – except for Jon, who smelled and listened, searching for the cat’s thoughts in the lengthening shadows of the morning. Then at last, they found each other, and yellow eyes became grey.

The daylight confused his sight at first, but the elk’s fear brought him into view. Jon flattened his shadowcat’s body against the forest floor, creeping along on thick padded paws. He smelled seven hundred savory, pungent pounds of hot entrails and blood, five feet high, not counting the lethal rack of antlers atop its massive regal head. Its shape became whole between trees, blistering with scent. Jon wove himself between those same trunks, ears rotating to locate the rustle of hoof and jostle of muscle under gamey hide, a frosty hoof peeling brown leaves from cold mud, a velvety upper lip and blunt lower teeth stripping off crispy bark, breathing a web of mist. Jon was a sliver of dark among the fallen logs, black-striped coat making him invisible. _The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve_ ,[1]a voice in his mind said.

When the elk finally started, Jon moved fast as a panicky blink. For a moment, he came face to face with the majestic creature, with his mighty crown cracking the light, the robust dark mantle of shaggy fur on his powerful neck, eyes of black glass on fire. It darted eastward, but not fast enough to outrun Jon. The shadowcat was a dash, a blur, a bolt. His fangs gleamed and a scream bubbled out of him. He drove the elk back south, south, and south again until he came within the shot of four hunters: a prince, a knight, a king, and a watchman. Silence hung like a prayer. The prince drew and shot, striking true through the elk’s heart and then again through his throat. Then grey eyes dissolved to yellow again, and Jon was back standing beside Satin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his henchman lay a hand on Duck’s crossbow, which was aimed at the shadowcat still facing them. Satin shook his head, and Duck lowered the weapon slowly.

Together they field dressed the elk in silence, as the shadowcat watched from behind an old oak. Jon was impressed at Griff’s skill with both a bow and a knife. They threw the entrails and lungs to the cat, who snatched them and drew away, giving Jon a long look. Jon held the heart in his hands for a moment, his mouth watering, and took a bite. The taste was succulent and salty. He passed the heart to Satin, who stared in awe for several seconds before taking it. He squeezed his eyes shut and wrinkled his nose, but took a bite and chewed it, only gagging slightly. Duck and Griff gaped at them, and seemed somewhat relieved when Jon took the heart back and threw it to the cat. He drew a line in blood beneath each eye and beneath each of Satin’s dark blue eyes as well. Satin blinked and then smiled. None of them spoke as they loaded the elk onto the litter and rigged it to the horses. The sun was high in the treetops by the time they neared the edge of the Wolfswood riding toward Winterfell.

“Your grace,” Jon said finally. “How do you rate these men…the Golden Company?”

Griff sighed. “They are the best army of sellswords to be found in the East,” he said. “But they are sellswords. And they are of the East. When it comes to loyalty and honor…they are basically animals.”

“We’re all basically animals, prince,” Jon said.

“Some of us more than others…” said Griff, eyeing Jon hard.

“I know your plan is to return to Dragonstone, your grace, but I’d like you to stay.”

“Me? Or my Army?”

“Both of you. The Freefolk and the Northmen are fierce fighters, and mostly loyal to me. But they aren’t enough to face the threats before us.”

“And I want to help you…but I made a vow, too.”

Jon nodded. “My people won’t accept a Southern ruler, your grace. Not after what they’ve suffered.”

“Perhaps they will if their king does.”[2]

A great round of cheers met them when they arrived at the castle with the elk. Jon told those who gathered how the prince had taken the elk in the south of the Wolfswood with his bow, with an aim that was worthy of a song. He did not say how the elk came to be within that aim.

Chapter 2: Shireen

Cape Wrath was really wailing outside the Rain House, but Lady Melisandre told Shireen the calm was coming. Tomorrow, her father Stannis would set sail over the Narrow Sea to Pentos to treat with Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, and Shireen must be with them. Now she was sorting through some gowns that had belonged to ladies of House Wylde, as Lord Casper had told her she could keep any that fit her. Melisandre and her mother Selyse were helping her – or at least the red lady was. Mother mostly sat on the bed, turning one of Shireen’s dollies over in her hands and looking sad. Shireen had determined she would only take her favorite books and just one toy, and that was going to be the little stag that Ser Devan had carved for her out of wood. She was getting to be a woman grown, and she would rather give her dolls to the daughters of the servants who remained at the Rain House. Most of the original ones still lived there, even after Lord Casper had surrendered to a general of the Golden Company who had taken the castle for young Aegon.

Lord Casper was a skinny man with a friendly face. His eyes were very round and very blue, and his hair and beard were mostly grey, even though he looked quite young. He brought the gowns to Shireen and Mother’s chambers in his arms in a giant pile that hid his face until he plopped them on the bed. They were all beautiful – it was just a matter of finding ones that fit Shireen. Since her father had been in the war, she and Mother hadn’t had many gowns to speak of, and mostly went in rough spun. Shireen never wanted to ask for a gown anyway. With her scars, what was the point? She would always be ugly, no matter how pretty her clothes were. Mother and Father never said that, but she knew that was what they thought. But now, Mother said she should have as many pretty dresses as she liked, for as long as she could wear them.

The sigil of House Wylde was a blue-green maelstrom on a gold field, and most of the gowns were bluish green with gold accents. Shireen liked that, because it was a little like the green and gold of her own house. A simple one Shireen liked was made of shiny blue-green silk and had long puffed sleeves and gold embroidered swirls over the breast and collar. Another was of blue-green velvet overlaid with gold lace in swirl patterns on the skirt and around the waist. Another that fit her well was made of blue-green tulle, criss-crossed all through with gold thread and cinched at the waist with straps of blue velvet. Her favorite was a high-necked, full-skirted gown with long sleeves the color of sea foam at the bottom and the color of dewy green fields at the shoulders. It had beautiful amber beads embroidered all over the shoulders and waist. The bodice was blue-green samite and lace, and the skirt was made of many layers of silk and tulle that flowed and twirled when she turned around. Mother’s eyes became very wet when she saw her in it. She took the four chosen gowns in her arms and excused herself, saying she’d come back when she had packed them away.

Shireen was sorry to take off the billowy green gown, but there was one more to try on. As Melisandre helped her to slip into it, she thought about Edric Storm, the cousin who Ser Davos had sent to Essos so he wouldn’t be burned in the red lady’s fires. He had been chosen to be given to the flames as a sacrifice to help her father defeat his new foe: the Others. Melisandre said the Lord of Light loved the innocent and the beautiful more than any other sacrifice. Should someone be both innocent and beautiful, and have king’s blood, it was the best sacrifice of all. Ser Davos had felt sorry for him, and Shireen was glad he wasn’t burned, but she missed him. She wished he could see her in her beautiful new gown. When she played with him, he had never called her ugly or even mentioned her greyscale scars. When Edric was with her, she sometimes forgot all about them – at least for a little while. Most other children she played with would never let her forget even for a moment, when their parents would allow them to play with her at all. She supposed it didn’t matter if she never saw Edric again – she would never marry anyway, not now.

The gown Melisandre was buttoning her into was made all of rich red velvet. The long, wide skirt was layered underneath with silk so that it looked fuller and felt light on her legs, and the waist was cinched with a sash of red satin. The low-dipped collar was trimmed with white Myrish lace and so were the sleeves. When Melisandre held the glass up, Shireen was shocked at how grown up she looked wearing it. _This is the dress I will die in,_ she thought. Outside in the hall, she could hear her fool Patchface, singing, almost as if he could sense the darkness coming over her. He had always been able to make her smile, but she wasn’t a little girl anymore.

_I had a way then_

_Losing it all on my own_

_I had a heart then_

_But the queen has been overthrown_

_And I’m not sleeping now_

_The dark is too hard to beat_

_And I’m not keeping up_

_The strength I need to push me_

_You show the lights that stop me turn to stone_

_You shine them when I’m alone_

_And so I tell myself that I’ll be strong_

_And dreaming when they’re gone… **[3]**_

Melisandre was listening to Patchface’s song, too, and seemed to know what Shireen was thinking. She threaded her fingers through Shireen’s brown hair gently.

“I know you must be troubled, princess,” Melisandre said. “Your strength makes you prized of your father…and of the Lord. As does your beauty.”

“I don’t have beauty,” Shireen said.

“Oh but you do. Not all beauty lies without, princess.”

She still called Shireen “princess,” even though her father’s kingdom belonged to young Griff now. The Rain House belonged to Laswell Peake instead of Lord Casper, though Casper still lived there. Father said Griff ordered his men not to hurt anybody as long as they surrendered peacefully. The prince was allowing them to stay and would even see that they sailed off safely now that Cape Wrath was his. Shireen had never felt like a princess anyway, even when she really was one.

Melisandre took Shireen by the hand and led her over to the hearth, which was burning brightly to fend off the chill. They knelt down by the fire that gave off not much more warmth than the red lady herself.

“Lead us in a prayer to the Lord, princess,” Melisandre said.

“You have to help me remember the words,” said Shireen.

“Just say what is in your heart.”

Shireen thought for a few seconds. “Lord of Light protect us from the darkness. Show us the path of light. And…watch over the dragon queen. Help her free all the slaves, and…when she comes to the Kingdoms, may she not forget the poor, and the weak that live here too.”

When she finished, she thought the fire glowed a little brighter, just for a second. Afterward, when she had changed into her nightgown, she sat on the bed while Melisandre braided her hair, wondering why her mother was taking so long. The chambers had become dark as night had fallen, and soon she would go to bed, but she wouldn’t sleep. Most nights, she lay awake for hours. This night in particular, she would probably go back to the book that Melisandre had given her not long after they’d come to the Rain House. _This is our secret, princess. You must not tell your mother._ She said the book was very special to the castle, as it might well have been written by the lady Coryanne Wylde of House Wylde, many years ago. It was called _A Caution for Young Girls_ , and it was supposed to be about things that happened to the Lady Coryanne, but it was similar to some other books she had never been allowed to read, like _Sins of the Flesh_ , or _A Wanton’s Tale_ , or _The Wickedness of Men_. Most of it was appalling, making Shireen think how unfair the world was for ladies and women of all births, and how powerless they and most smallfolk were. If she ever got to really meet Daenerys Targaryen, she would ask her about that.

Some parts of the book, however, she really liked: the part where the heroine lived with a pirate queen, and another where she was the handmaid of a warlock. Some nights after reading those, she lay in bed and Edric Storm would jump into her mind. Some nights, it was Jon Snow, the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, who everyone called the Black Bastard. Other times, it was Ser Devan, but always, without thinking, she ended up with her fingers between her legs, putting a little bit of pressure there. It felt good, though she knew the Seven would call it a sin. She didn’t know what the Lord of Light felt about that, and she was too afraid to ask Melisandre. She had a feeling, however, that the Lord didn’t mind.

When Melisandre had finished with her braid, Mother finally came back to say goodnight. She had a small wooden box in her hands that she held almost like a baby. She dismissed the red lady and then sat next to Shireen on the bed.

“Your lord father and I wanted you to have a gift,” Mother said. Her voice was hoarse, and Shireen saw that her eyes were very red. Mother held out the box and opened it. Inside was a necklace – a silver chain that ended in two silver antlers joined together, and at the center of them, a huge opal in the shape of a tear. Shireen gasped.

“Oh Mother…it’s so beautiful.”

“See how the fire burns inside the stone,” Mother said.

Shireen suddenly felt sorry for her. “You didn’t have to give me this,” she said.

“Yes…I did.” Mother began to cry then, not even bothering to cover her face with her hands as she usually did.

“Don’t cry,” Shireen said. “You mustn’t.”

Shireen pulled her mother to her and let her bury her tired head in her chest. She hugged her tight, and held her until the sea outside quieted to a whisper.

Chapter 3: Gendry

Tom o’Sevens and his harp had the crowd in the Great Hall of Riverrun riveted. It was a dark night for a dark song. If Gendry had been having any second thoughts about leaving the service of Lady Stoneheart, those thoughts were gone now.

_As I sit here and slowly close my eyes_

_I take another deep breath_

_And feel the wind pass through my body_

_I’m the one in your soul_

_Reflecting inner light_

_Protect the ones who hold you_

_Cradling your inner child… **[4]**_

Gendry caught the eyes of Thoros of Myr to his left and Merritt of Moontown to his right. They nodded, Thoros said, _Up boys_ , just under the volume of Tom’s song, and at once they all lifted their butts off the bench. At the same time, they reached between their legs to lift the bench and move it, a couple of feet this time, closer to the exit door. Franklyn Flowers was with them, and Gendry was grateful, as he was a heavy man, and they needed all the weight they could get. With Frank’s help, carrying the bench down to the dungeons where Podrick Payne was held would be no more effort than lifting a wooden spoon. Aegon Targaryen VI had sent Frank to make terms with the Brotherhood Without Banners, but his prince would not be happy with the Hangwoman’s practices. That meant Aegon, who Frank fondly called “young Griff,” might reward those who deserted her. Frank had made a show of joining the Brotherhood at any rate, even saying the words that gave him to Rh’llor, and he didn’t seem as terrified as most who came face to face with the grim Lady. Then again, his face was almost as ugly as hers. _Up boys_ , Thoros said again, and the bench was lifted and pulled another couple of feet.

_I need serenity_

_In a place where I can hide_

_I need serenity_

_Nothing changes days go by **[5]** _

As they got close to the exit, Gendry could smell the remains of the night’s fires, and his stomach turned. At first, he hadn’t let the fires bother him. Many of those who burned had done horrible things, even to people he cared about. Some of them had hurt or threatened the orphans at the Crossroads Inn where Gendry worked the forge. He could handle seeing _them_ strapped to a stake and burned. He just said the prayers and stared at the brightness of the flames, overlooking the screams and the sizzling flesh. Often in those moments he felt the Lord’s presence and saw his destiny in the fire. Sometimes he did not. Lady Stoneheart herself had once been someone very important to a friend of his, but this night’s burning hadn’t felt like Rh’llor’s doing. It was very much the work of a vengeful, spiteful and evil monster, who didn’t even follow the path herself. True, Sybell Spicer had helped facilitate the murder of Robb Stark and his mother, but the Lady didn’t burn Sybell. Instead, she burned her son and two daughters, including Robb’s widow, and made her watch before hanging her. What evil thing had Jeyne Westerling ever done, other than fall in love with a king? Her sorrowful, resigned look when the fire was lit would haunt Gendry for the rest of his life, as would the screams of her brother Rollam, and the pleas for mercy of her sister Eleyna.

_Up_ , Thoros said again. The bench and the sitters moved closer still to the exit. As the smell grew stronger and the door grew closer, the song made Gendry think (again) of his friend Arya.

_Tragic visions slowly stole my life_

_Tore away everything_

_Cheating me out of my time_

_I’m the one who loves you_

_No matter wrong or right_

_And every day I hold you_

_I hold you with my inner child… **[6]**_

It had been over a month, since the lady Arya Stark of Winterfell walked in the door of the Inn. It was morning, and the children were at their chores: Ben, Pate and Jonny had started on the floors, Wat and Will were hauling wood, and Bam and Stevo were outside doing their exercises with Willow Heddle, the proprietress. The big girls were in the kitchen – Jenny and Jodi were washing the morning dishes, and Ripley and Anna were baking bread. The littler ones Rie and Kerrykay were gathering the linen to be washed. Gendry and Frosty Heddle were making well sure the night’s customers were paid up and on their way. He had instantly recognized Arya, despite how strangely she was dressed. She wore tight-fitting boiled leather breeches in jet-black, and a black doublet laced over a dark blue hooded tunic of some Eastern sort of wool lined with red embroidery. Over it all, she wore a long brown coat made of something very soft that was heavy but not leather and lined with a strange-looking fur. Her gloves were wool, dyed the color of mulberries, and her boots were of a sort of grey reptile skin – maybe a snake. Lashed to her belt was a sword barely thicker than a needle.

The Arya Gendry remembered had looked just like a little boy, but now she was taller by a head, and some woman’s curves had formed. However, he would know those steely eyes and that long thorny face anywhere. When he saw her, he dropped his hammer to the floor and shouted, _Arry!_ Then he ran to her headlong, tackling her and drawing her into his arms.

“Allllllright then…” she had said, patting him on his broad back.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” said Gendry, letting her go at last. “I thought for sure you were lost and gone!”

They spent the next two hours sharing their stories over a pitcher of ale and the remains of the morning mush. Arya ate it greedily, which could only mean she was absolutely starving. That morning turned into a celebration. Willow and Rie made fresh honey cakes, and Frosty opened a barrel of ale. Ripley played her lute, and Stevo his harp, and they sang and drank and let the little ones play and the work go undone. Gendry danced with Willow and with Tansy the whore before dancing with Arya, who had refused him at first. Unexpectedly, she was light on her feet, and quick to learn the moves, much quicker than Gendry had been when Dewdrop, another of the Inn’s whores, had taught him.

“Where did you learn to dance? You’re downright graceful,” Gendry said.

“The mummers taught me some…but the grace came from my dancing master,” Arya said, then put on a mock frown. “You act like you expect me to lumber over your toes like a dying heifer.”

“More like a mammoth,” said Gendry.

She punched him in the ribs, not too hard, and he laughed. Then she became serious.

“Tell me, Gendry…are you a virgin?”

Gendry blushed and rolled his eyes. “No…are you?” He was instantly sorry he had asked. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

“No…but also yes. Who was she?”

“What do you mean no and also yes?” Gendry wondered if she had been raped. The thought filled him with a rage that crept up his spine boiling hot. He vowed whoever had done it, if indeed it had been done, would burn in a night fire screaming, one way or the other.

“Was it Tansy? Or Willow? Jeyne Heddle?” Arya pressed.

“We call her Frosty now…but it wasn’t her. Why do you want to know so much?”

Arya blushed a little. “I don’t _so much_. Why should I care who you’ve been bedding. It’s naught to me.”

“I haven’t been bedding anyone,” Gendry said. It was true he had loved Frosty for a time, but she would never love him…or any man. “What sweethearts have _you_ been torturing?”

“No one. Truly.”

At some point, there were customers to deal with, and the festivities had to come to an end. Gendry told the youngsters to make up a room for Arya, who tried to refuse it at first.

“I’m fine in the stables,” she said. “And anyway, I can’t stay. I’m just here to appeal to the Brotherhood to help my brother Jon…then I have to go home.”

Gendry’s stomach had sunk when she said that. He’d had no idea how to tell her about her mother, or what used to be her mother. Quickly he had thought of a way to keep her there a little longer.

“If you stay, I’ll make you some armor. A good steel breastplate with a Stark Direwolf pounded into it – and cuisses and spaulders to match. I could even make you a helm in the shape of a wolf’s head…”

He had remembered too late that her brother Robb’s direwolf’s head had been sewn onto his shoulders after the Freys killed him, and he felt sorry for saying it. However, Arya hadn’t taken note of it, and only said there wasn’t time.

“The Queen wants Jon’s head,” she said.

“You don’t know how fast I’ve gotten with my hammer,” said Gendry. “You need armor, Arry. There’s a war afoot.”

“What I need is to speak to the Brotherhood, Gendry, and fast.”

“So speak to me…or give me a message. I’ll ask them whatever you want.”

Arya seemed open to that, and she agreed at least to be measured for the armor. He took her to a room in the East wing, where the whores didn’t work, and had new linens put on the bed. Gendry hoped once Arya saw the room, she’d agree to stay in it instead of in the stables. He pulled his measuring tape from his pocket and started by wrapping it around the circumference of her skull, standing over her while she sat on the straw-stuffed mattress.

“If you want to know, I lost my virginity to Dewdrop – the whore,” he said. “Or Bluebell. I think it was Bluebell actually.” Leaning over her, he placed the tape against the nape of Arya’s neck with a thumb, and drew it up to the top of her head. Her hair had an earthy smell from being outside. He liked that smell.

“What do you mean you _think_. Don’t you know?” Arya asked. Her nostrils were flaring, as if she was taking in his scent as well.

“Well it was all a confusion, you see. I was in my quarters down in the cellar, minding my own business, cleaning my boots…hold out your arm.”

He measured from her shoulder to her elbow, then wrapped the tape around her upper arm, accidentally brushing the side of her breast as he did. If Arya noticed, she didn’t say so, but Gendry’s heart had begun to beat a little faster. “When suddenly, Tansy, Dewdrop and Bluebell burst in the door with their bodices wide open and rush at me like a bunch of brigands on the King’s Road…stand up.”

Arya stood, and Gendry knelt down to measure her legs, holding one end of the tape against her knee and drawing it up along her thigh. That thigh was hard as stone, but Gendry thought it trembled a little when he touched her. “There I was, face to face with three pair of the best tits this side of the Trident. Before I knew it, they knocked me backward in my chair and were on me like crows on a dead horse – one, two, three…hold both your arms out to the side.”

Ever so gently, he wrapped the tape around Arya under the armpits, then again at her ribcage above her waist. “All I kept saying was _Lord of Light, girls, there’s only one of me!”_ [7]

Even more gently, Gendry brought the tape around the front of her breasts, trying to keep his fingers away until he brought the tape together again at the tip of her breastbone, sweat gathering on his upper lip. When he had looked up, he found himself staring deep into Arya’s grey eyes. She asked him, “What makes you think I have the coin to pay for new armor?”

“If not you can owe me credit,” Gendry said.

“You didn’t even write down the measurements!”

Gendry pointed at his temple. “It’s all up here.” 

It was and would be, long after she had gone. She spent nearly a month at the Inn, despite her initial protests of needing to get back to Winterfell. She earned her keep by helping with the cooking and cleaning, and she wrote some little skits and acted them out with the orphans for a jest. They even made little costumes out of old rags and the whores’ discarded shifts, or patched together moss and fallen leaves or acorns strung together with twine. That had given Willow the idea to convert one of the halls into a theater, and she had begun collecting lumber to build a stage. Anna had taken to sewing the rags and discarded shifts into real costumes: forest children, mad kings, dragon princesses and the like. According to Arya, some of those little ones had real talent, especially Bam, Pate and little Kerrykay, and the girls Jenny and Jodi could sing like birds. Gendry soon ran out of excuses for not arranging a meeting with the Brotherhood, however, and had to tell her that it had split in two. He told her about Sandor Clegane and the Kingslayer. He told her about the Hollow Hill and how it was now a haven for those few who had deserted the Brotherhood because they disagreed with the new leader.

“The Brotherhood has the Twins now, and soon we’ll have Riverrun,” Gendry told her. “You won’t need Winterfell any longer. You and your sister – you can stay here in the Riverlands.”

“The Riverlands aren’t my home. My family is in the North,” said Arya.

“Not all of your family is there…”

They were in the kitchen after suppertime. Arya’s hair was braided down the back, and she wore one of Willow’s kitchen frocks, as she had been cleaning up after supper and stoking the ovens for the next day’s bread. Gendry had been in the forge all day, and Arya’s armor was finished, though he had tried to draw the work out as much as possible. His hands were black with soot, and hers were greasy and fish-smelling, but he took her hand in his and squeezed it while he told her Catelyn Stark was “alive.” A hopeful smile had brightened her face, until he looked into her eyes and told her the horrifying truth about Lady Stoneheart. Arya’s smile faded, and she slapped him hard across the face and ran from the kitchen.

He found her in her room after he had washed and changed, staring out the window at the moon. She invited him in and apologized for hitting him, and asked if he would take her to the Hollow Hill.

“We can ride this very night, if that would put a smile back on your face,” Gendry had said. “But I don’t know if the Hollow Hill band can help your brother.”

“No,” Arya said. “Not tonight. I’m very tired, Gendry.”

Her voice was so mournful, it made Gendry’s throat close. “If you want me to, I’ll fight for your brother with you. I won’t make you go alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” said Arya. “I’m going to free the Hound and bring him with me.”

She stood up and walked over to him. She was wearing one of his old shirts, and nothing else. Her legs were stiffly muscled and covered with small bruises, but her steps were so quiet she might have been floating. She pulled her braid apart so that her hair fell wavy around her shoulders and gazed up at him. As if in a trance, his head bent down toward her until his lips met hers. The kiss was long and soft, and when he felt her arms around his neck, the smell of kitchen sweat and the musk of the forest enveloped him. However, before he thought of lifting that shirt from her body and bringing her to the bed, he stopped.

“No, I can’t… _you_ can’t,” he said.

“What can’t I do, now?” Arya held her body against him and didn’t move her eyes from his. It unsettled him, but he stood his ground.

“You still forget yourself. Even after all this time…”

“Gendry…it’s not the same now. Winterfell is no more. I am no one…”

“No… _I’m_ no one. I was born nothing, and that’s _never_ going to change. As much as I want to be with you, it will always be impossible…why don’t you understand that?”

“No, I don’t understand. I just know I want you…these past weeks I’ve almost forgotten about my brother and my sister and their troubles. I was ready to just settle here and be your innkeep wife. If I could…”

“But you can’t…and you can never do that. You were born to be a great lady. No matter what happens to Winterfell, or to your sister, or Jon Snow, you will always be that. And I will always be _this_ …”

Arya’s eyes fell down as if realizing what he was saying was true. What was she going to do – marry him, have babies, with a blacksmith from Flea Bottom? Surely she knew better.

“Fine. Be this then. But hold me anyway, will you?”

So he did. They lay down on the bed in each other’s arms, Arya’s bare legs woven within his, her head resting on his chest. Late in the night, a strange thunderstorm blew in from the west, seemingly out of nowhere. They had listened to the rain pattering against the window and watched the lightning flicker, and Gendry had prayed silently to the Lord of Light that he might magically become something more than he was.

At the back of the great hall of Riverrun, the men and their bench were barely six feet away from the doors. There were no guards at the door…most of the Tully men were marching on the Rock. _Now, boys, now!_ Thoros said. Quick as lightning, the bench went from under their arses to the cups of their palms, and they were speeding out the exit door. Gendry closed it behind them and led the way to where young Podrick Payne was waiting in a cell with iron hinges on the door.

Gendry had been the one to point out how old the doors to the Riverrun dungeon cells were. He knew more than a little about metal, and his work may well have helped build any number of prison doors just like them. _Those are half pin barrel hinges,_ he told Brienne and the Kingslayer when they asked if he could free Pod while they went to pay their debt at Casterly Rock. _With the right leverage, and a proper application of strength, they’ll bust right off and the door will fall free. **[8]** _Now they had a bench and four very heavy men – if that wasn’t enough strength and leverage, Gendry would feel the fool indeed. It took time and sweat to weave the bench down the turret stair, but with a few choice curses, they made it to the dungeon level. The gaoler was just old Delp, a Riverrun guardsman who held onto those keys like they were his hairy balls. Thoros went to distract him with a drink of wine while Gendry, Merritt and Frank snuck the bench down the corridor. When they found Podrick’s cell, Gendry peered into the hole and saw the young man asleep sitting up against the wall with his chained hands in his lap. They would deal with those chains later.

“Podrick Payne,” Gendry said. “Get ready to run.”

Pod opened his eyes and blinked, dazed, but then he was on his feet. They lined one leg of the bench up with the hinges, with the other raised in the air. Gendry and Merritt took one side and Frank the other, and on the count of three, they put all of their weight on the end of the bench that stuck in the air. Under the pressure of the bench’s other leg, the hinges popped off, making a terrible noise. Then they were on the run, hurling Delp out of the way before he could lift his sword, and making their way to the water gate at the rear of the castle – the one Brynden Tully had told them about. Two rowboats waited on the Red Fork to carry them away, procured by Frank Flowers. Gendry tried not to think about what young Griff might want in return. Quietly, in near complete darkness, they climbed in. Gendry looked up to see Tom o’Sevens, and at first, he thought the jig was up, but Tom only waved,[9] and carried on with his tune.

_Where do we go when we just don’t know_

_And how do we relight the flame when it’s cold_

_Why do we dream when our thoughts mean nothing_

_And when will we learn to control… **[10]**_

[1] Sylvia Plath, “Winter Trees.”

[2] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 4: “The Spoils of War,” HBO, 2017.

[3] Goulding, Ellie, “Lights,” _An Introduction to Ellie Goulding_ , Polydor, 2010.

[4] Godsmack, “Serenity,” _Faceless_ , Universal Motown, 2003.

[5] “Serenity”

[6] “Serenity”

[7] Madden, Paul, _Summer Job_ , SVS films, 1989. (It’s either this, or some other 80’s sex comedy trash.)

[8] Verbinski, Gore. _Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl_ , Walt Disney Pictures, 2003.

[9] Benioff and Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 8: “No One,” HBO, 2016.

[10] “Serenity”


End file.
